


Fifty Years a Car

by cotangent_brothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cotangent_brothers/pseuds/cotangent_brothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, Baby lived happily as the Winchesters' car. Then everything changed when Dean killed a witch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby Got Back

**Author's Note:**

> Description: Human!Impala AU. 
> 
> Setting: The fic takes place right after the Season 8 finale with a few changes. In this AU, Metatron did not succeed in casting the angels out of Heaven. Cas is without his grace, yes, but Metatron is locked away in Heaven’s prison. Crowley is at large, Kevin still lives in the bunker, and Abaddon is plotting nasty things, as per usual. Now add in Human!Baby, and see what happens :)
> 
> Warnings: profanity 
> 
> Author: cotangent-brothers.tumblr.com

Body fluids. Body fluids fucking everywhere.

Dean gagged as he wiped some yellowish ooze from his face before diving to the left, barely avoiding being hit by a flying pot. The witch shrieked in annoyance and flung more cooking ware at him. He rolled out of the way, screaming, “I just wanted a spell, goddammit! I said I’d pay you!”

“And I told you to get out of my house!” she shot back, flicking her wrists. Dean was thrown backwards, and he slammed into a cabinet before collapsing onto the ground. His head spun, and some part of his face was bleeding because the taste of blood met his tongue. The witch advanced on him, sparks of electricity leaping from her fingertips. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming here after what you did to my husband.”

Dean smirked up at her. “Nah, I don’t swing that way.”

She made an indignant noise and raised her leg as if to kick him, but he grabbed it and twisted, making her topple onto the tiled floor. In seconds, he was on top of her and without hesitation, he snatched up his knife from the ground and plunged it into her overflowing bosom. The witch let out a gurgled yelp, clawed at her chest weakly, then her eyes rolled back into her head and she lay dead.

Though Dean was unaware of this, everything changed in that moment of aftershock. Lightning, pure blue and unnatural, broke free of the clouds and struck the earth not far from where he sat, panting. Back at the bunker, Kevin jerked awake from his sleep with a feeling of vague apprehension roiling in his gut. And all over the Earth, demons shivered.

It had begun.

__________

It was bad enough that the “faith healer” had turned out to be a witch. Now he smelled like feet and felt like Pestilence had humped him.

And Sammy was still sick.

“Dammit,” Dean muttered as he shut the door of the witch’s house behind him. He’d just wasted the last hour disposing of the body and destroying the evidence of his presence/murder. And he didn’t even have an antidote or spell for his dying brother. He angrily kicked aside a rock and plunged his hands into his pockets, racking his mind for another option – when he saw it.

His license plate lay on the road surrounded by all the weapons he’d stored in the trunk of his car, his various cassettes and CDs, his cell phones, and his other miscellaneous junk. But the Impala was gone.

“What the…?” he trailed off, too horrified to even finish. Dean raced over to his stuff and looked around wildly for the familiar black paint of his car. But there was no sign of his Baby. Not even any security cameras in the vicinity of the suburban neighborhood that could’ve caught the thief.

Dean ran a hand over his face, letting out a string of obscenities. _Calm down_. _Focus_.

On the one hand, Baby was gone. And he was going to murder a son of a bitch for that.

On the other hand, Sam was sick and getting worse by the minute. He didn’t have time to play cops and robbers with some punk ass…

At least he’d LoJack’ed the car, so he could track its location from his laptop when he got home. Dean sighed, feeling a little less nauseous.  

Of course, he had to get home first.

He scanned the surrounding area for an alternative mode of transportation, and his eyes fell on a minivan parked in the neighboring driveway, its bumper covered in suburban-soccer-mom-esque stickers. How fucking typical. Gritting his teeth, Dean removed his jacket and piled his belongings onto it, trying not to look at the mom car until he had no other choice but to.

It was going to be a long drive.

_________

It was 1:00 AM by the time he got back to the bunker, and Dean was pissed at having to park the minivan in the spot he usually reserved for the Impala. But the fear over his missing car was nothing compared to the gnawing anxiety in his stomach at the thought of having to look at his comatose brother. So he stopped by the kitchen first and poured himself an unwise amount of whiskey before heading to Sam’s room.

The door was open, and when Dean peered in, he found Castiel sitting by the bed, mopping the sweat from Sam’s brow with a cloth.

“Hey, man,” Dean said quietly as he came to stand beside the angel. “How’s he looking?”  

Cas sighed. “Not good. But you knew that.” Sam had been stable enough to be moved from the hospital to the bunker, something Dean had decided to do when the doctor declared his brother’s situation to be “in the hands of God.” But now…

“What about you?” At that, Cas looked up. Dean took in the bags under his eyes and the sallow color of his skin. “How’re you holding up now that your mojo’s gone?”

His blue eyes seemed to grow impossibly wearier. But all he said was, “I’m fine. Taking care of Sam…it makes me feel more like myself.”

“Maybe so, but the thing about humans, even ex-angel humans,” Dean added, “is that they need sleep.”

“But—”

“I’ll watch him,” he said, patting Cas’ shoulder. Reluctantly, Cas dropped the cloth on the nightstand and stood up, allowing Dean to take his place by his brother’s side.

“I take it you didn’t procure a miracle for Sam,” the angel guessed.

Dean took a swig of whiskey and turned away from him. “Do me a favor and check on Kevin,” he said. “Kid’s been having nightmares.”

He listened to the sound of Castiel’s once-silent footsteps retreating. “Good night, Dean,” his friend said.

“’Night.” The door closed, and Dean finally let the bravado slip from his face. It was after staring at Sam’s motionless form that he bowed his head and prayed – for help, for a miracle, for something. Anything.

But then, was anyone even listening? 

_____________

_“Sam. Sam!”  
_

_It all happened in disjointed frames of motion. Sam limping towards him, Dean’s name on his lips. The other guy, the one in the worn camo, jerking to his feet with the knife in his hands. Dean letting out a strangled cry to warn Sam, to stop the man from hurting his brother.  
_

_The army man stabbing Sam.  
_

_Sam falling to his knees.  
_

_Dean running toward him, not fast enough, never fast enough.  
_

_Catching Sam in his arms. Holding him as the life drained out of him with his blood.  
_

_His blood on Dean’s hands, warm and slippery and fresh.  
_

_And the words, promises broken before they were even made, tumbling from his mouth. “Hey. Look. Look at me. It’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, alright? Sammy? Sam! Hey, listen to me. We’re gonna patch you up, okay? You’ll be good as new. Huh? I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna take care of you. I got you. That’s my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother? Sam? Sam. Sam! Sammy!”  
_

_Not fast enough.  
_

_“Sam!”_

Dean woke with a start, heart hammering.

He was sitting in the chair beside Sam’s bed, and his neck was stiff from resting uncomfortably against his chest. His brother lay unchanged. If anything, Sam looked worse. His lips were colorless, his face was gaunt, and the rise and fall of his chest was uneven.

Dean ran a hand over his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and gulped down the last of the whiskey to wash away the stale taste in his mouth.

His heart wouldn’t slow down, as if he’d shot up adrenaline.

He had to get out of here. He had to do something besides just sitting around, waiting for his brother to finally kick it.  

The Impala. He’d forgotten to track its location. Dean nodded to himself and slipped out of the room.

His laptop sat untouched on one of the tables in the bunker’s library. Dean plunked himself down in front of it and logged onto the police tracking site, activating the LoJack’s system. It began processing his information and searching for the radio frequency signal linked to his car. Dean drummed his fingers on the table’s wooden surface as he waited.

ERROR.

The word popped up on his screen in bold, red letters.

“The hell?” he muttered, and tried a few alternative search methods, to no avail. The warning kept appearing, leaving him at a dead end.

Blood pounded in his ears as Dean stared at the screen. No way had the thief disabled his tracking system – he’d hidden it too well. And what the shit did “ERROR” mean? Had his car been utterly demolished? Dropped into the Bermuda fucking Triangle? “ERROR” did not mean “signal not found.” It meant something had happened to his Baby.

He pounded his fist on the table and stood up angrily. Would he ever catch a damn break?

He needed to clear his head before he slammed it into a wall. And that’s how Dean ended up behind the wheel of the minivan, leaving the rising sun behind him as he drove without a destination.

___________

Despite its maternal appearance, the minivan wasn’t a terrible ride. It smelled like potpourri and sunscreen and drove relatively smoothly. But when Dean turned on the stereo, the whiny crooning of some Bieber wannabe blared from the speakers, and he scrambled to shut it off.

So a teenage girl was definitely part of the picture. Or a teenage boy. Or a menopausal woman going through mid-life crisis.

Dean shook his head and made guilty eye contact with the bobble head Mickey Mouse sitting on the dashboard.

“What are you looking at?” he grumbled. “Someone took my car, and I had to get back to Sam.”

Mickey stared at him knowingly.

“Yeah, I know the family probably wants their van back, but…”

Mickey’s eyes bore into his, penetrating his soul. Dean had never felt so judged by an inanimate object in all his life.

“Fine,” he hissed. “I’ll return it tonight. God.” Aggravated, he ripped the bobble head off the dashboard and threw it into the backseat. Could this day get any worse?

That’s when he noticed the fuel gage, or more specifically, its needle dipping dangerously close to empty. Perfect. Now he would have to spend money on the mom-mobile, too.

Dean set off in the direction of the nearest gas station, wondering all the while if he should perform an exorcism on the bobble head for good measure.

___________

The sun had well broken free from the horizon by the time he pulled up at the gas station. It was deserted – even the dingy convenience store looked empty. Dean half-expected tumbleweed to flutter across the street. Regardless, he got out of the minivan and began filling up the tank, mind wandering back to his brother.

He had to figure something out for Sam. Judging by his condition, Sam only had a day or so left, two if they were lucky, which they never were. Dean closed his eyes against the nauseating panic. What options did he have left? Demons and angels at this point, and he didn’t know which was worse. Maybe Cas could call in a favor with one of his dick brothers –

“What do we have here?”

Dean turned around slowly, reaching for the gun tucked into his waistband beneath his jacket.

Three men, all in their mid-thirties, stood before him.

“Can I help you?” he asked warily, noting how they stood between him and the minivan.

“What?” said the one with shades on, “Don’t recognize us?” Dean narrowed his eyes and unlocked the safety on his gun behind him. Shades’ mouth twitched. “Maybe this’ll jog your memory.” He broke into a grin, revealing the jagged teeth of a werewolf.

Dean swore and raised his gun to fire, but something caught his head and slammed it into the side of the minivan so hard that it dented the frame. Everything went black.

____________

_“It’s okay, Dean.”  
_

_They were in the cemetery, Dean brutally injured and sprawled against the Impala, Sam a few feet away, temporarily in control of himself.  
_

_Sam gave him an incredulous, terrified smile. “I’ve got him.”  
_

_A little ways away, Bobby lay dead and the chunky remains of Cas were splattered on the ground. But Dean only had eyes for his brother who, as he watched, pulled the Horsemen’s rings from his pocket and recited the incantation that opened the hole into Lucifer’s cage.  
_

_Fierce winds ripped through the air and pulled everything in the hole’s vicinity towards it. Sam locked eyes with Dean, and all that they hadn’t said, hadn’t had the time or the courage to say, passed between them. Dean felt as if his throat were closing. Maybe he just didn’t want to breathe in a world without Sam.  
_

_Then Michael in Adam’s vessel reappeared, screaming something over the roaring winds, but Sam simply grasped him, embraced him, and dragged the two of them towards the hole. And Dean watched as his little brother took the fall for the world as he’d done a thousand times before. But this time, Sam wasn’t going to get up again._

“Hey.” A sharp stinging sensation across his face. “Wake up.” Another burst of pain. Dean held back a groan and shook himself out of unconsciousness.  

He was in what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse – imagine that – and his chest and arms were bound by rope to a metal column beneath one of the catwalks. By the lightness of his jacket, his weapons had been removed too. Fucking spectacular.

The werewolf with the shades stood before him, flanked by two more mutts. Another three were lounging around, eyeing him menacingly.

Dean broke the silence. “We better still be in Kansas, Toto, or I might have to gank a bitch.”

Shades smirked, then lunged forward and punched Dean in the gut. He doubled over as far as the roped allowed, tasting blood.

“Winchesters,” Shades spat. “Think you’re such hot stuff. Let’s see how hot you are without your legs.”

Dean cocked his head. “This sounds personal. What’s on your mind, pal?”

“Tampa. Three years ago. You and your brother invaded my home and killed my parents. Ring any bells?”

Actually it did, but all Dean said was, “Hmm. Maybe. But all you furry sons of bitches look the same to me, so…” He and Sam must not have been on their game if so many wolves had survived their hunt all those year ago.

 _Sam_.

Dean didn’t have time for this. Not now. Not when the clock was ticking down on Sammy’s beating heart. The douche werewolf was talking again, but Dean was no longer listening. These kinds of situations required a methodical, focused approach.

Step one – assess the situation. Okay. Six werewolves, three close to the exit, three in front of him. No weapons on him except for the lock pick hidden beneath his belt…but how to get to it?

Step two – locate all available weapons. The lock pick possibly. His legs weren’t tied, so he could kick if he needed to. There was a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall to his left a ways away. It was heavy, good to hit with. Keys dangled from one of the wolves’ belt. That would also work for some close-contact fighting. But what he really needed was silver…

“Hey! Are you listening to me, asshat?” Shades barked.

“I listen better when I’m not tied to a pole,” Dean replied absently, “unless this is a kink thing, in which case—”

“Jesus Christ, that’s it,” Shades growled. “I’ve fucking had it with you hunters. Screw that damn brother of yours, I’ll track him down without you.” The werewolf shuddered suddenly, and he began to transform. Claws broke free from his fingertips, fangs slid into place from his jaws, and yellow pooled over his irises. His pack let out low howls and shifted too, slowly advancing on Dean. _Fucking fuck_. Dean braced himself, ready to go down kicking, when—

 _Fwoop, fwoop, fwoop_. All he saw was the glint of shiny things zipping through the air, then three wolves yelped and toppled onto the floor. Shades and the other two who were still vertical whirled around and watched in astonishment as their comrades convulsed for a moment before going still.

“What the—?” But before Shades could even finish, something small lodged itself into the side of his throat. A dart. Two more followed, striking down the last two wolves, and as Dean stared, they collapsed, foaming at mouth, and twitched for a while before also becoming motionless. The only sound for miles was Dean’s pounding heart.

And then she appeared.

Like a shadow, she leapt from the catwalk adjacent to him and landed silently, sheathing the dart gun at her waist. She paused for a minute to survey her work, smirked, and sauntered over to him. She was lithe, graceful…but there was something also too intense about her, the way her eyes didn’t blink often enough and instead took in the world ferociously.

“Pretty good, huh?” she said in a low, raspy voice when she approached. Either she was a chain smoker or she’d blown out her vocal chords because her voice sounded raw, neglected. With deft hands, she plucked a knife from her boot and began cutting though Dean’s ropes. She smelled oddly like motor oil.

“Were those darts made of silver or something?” he asked as his arm wriggled free. “Never seen the fleabags have that reaction before, though.”

“Silver’s for amateurs,” she flashed him a grin. “I find ground-up monkshood to be more efficient. Only need the tiniest bit to ice the suckers.”

“Monkshood?”

She rolled her eyes. “Wolfsbane, as it’s more commonly called.” The ropes finally fell away, and Dean exhaled freely, shaking out the pins and needles in his limbs.

“I thought wolfsbane as a hunting tool was only a myth,” he frowned.

She looked at him almost sadly and said, “We’re living a myth, aren’t we?” She shook her head and smiled. “Besides, wolfsbane kills a lot of things – animals, people, some other monsters. Hell, I almost killed myself once trying to load it into my darts. But that’s a story for a later date.” She tucked the knife back into her boot. “What do you say we blow this popsicle stand, Dean?”

He paused and looked at her. His name sounded so familiar on her tongue, intimate even. “Have we met?” She was obviously a hunter. Maybe he’d met her on a different case? But she was kind of hard to forget.

Dark-skinned and pretty, she had a mass of curly black hair held out of her face with a red bandana, and brown eyes surrounded by a fringe of thick lashes. A leather jacket hugged her lean frame, and ripped jeans were tucked into combat boots.

“’Have we met’,” she scoffed. “What is with you and not recognizing people?” He just shook his head, and she sighed. “Here. Maybe this’ll help you out.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved something small and green, tossing it at Dean. He caught it reflexively.

It was a figurine, a little toy soldier. The very one Sam had crammed in the ashtray of the Impala. Her identity dawned on him in a rush of confusion and wonder. _No fucking way_.

“Baby?” he sputtered.

She smiled wryly. “In the flesh.”

 


	2. How to Get Away with Credit Card Fraud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Jackie (Baby) hit the road in search of a cure for Sam. Jackie may or may not strip for Dean...

“Wanna grab breakfast?”

Dean glanced at her as she drove. He’d been trying to gather his thoughts which kept splintering into a thousand pieces, the fragments landing all over the place.

“No, I don’t want to grab breakfast,” he muttered, but then his stomach gurgled in complaint, and she laughed. It was the most lighthearted sound he’d heard in a while. She was almost giddy.

“I’m thinking pancakes…with maple syrup and butter and whipped cream,” she closed her eyes and licked her lips. “Oh, or maybe an omelet with home fries and sausages. What do you suggest, Dean?”

“Stop,” he snapped suddenly. “Stop saying my name like you know me. Stop acting like this isn’t weird. I don’t even know if you’re telling truth. I mean, seriously? You expect me to believe that you used to be my car?” He snorted. “I’ve seen some unbelievable crap, but that takes the cake.”  

They’d finished disposing of the werewolves’ bodies and were now back on the road in the car the girl had driven in. Dean didn’t even know why he’d gone with her. Curiosity, maybe? The toy soldier was the very one Sam had stuffed into the ashtray when they were kids. Had the same chipped paint on the bottom of the shoe and everything. But that could have been a coincidence. Or worse, this girl was the one who’d stolen Baby, and she’d simply yanked the figurine out of the ashtray in some perverted attempt to convince him that she was his car. Whatever it was, he was going to figure it out.

The girl—woman—how old was she anyway? She had one of those ageless faces—was staring at the road now, silent and somber. Then, “Rainbow Motors. May 18th, 1973. Lawrence, Kansas.”

Dean stared at her. “What?”

She met his eyes for a moment. “The day your dad bought m—the Impala. And you were there, somehow, convincing him to pick the Chevy over that hippie VW van.”

“How did you—”

“C-45P4. BQN 9R3. Then KAZ 2Y5. And most recently, CNK 80Q3.” Dean swallowed, and she continued. “John gave you the car when you were sixteen, and the first place you drove was to a Barnes and Nobles to buy a playboy magazine. In 2006, a few weeks after your dad died and that bus crashed into the car, you took a golf club and broke one of the windows. Led Zeppelin II and Me and Mr. Johnson are your favorite albums, you crammed Legos in the vent, and you and Sam carved your initials into the floor of the car.”

Dean turned away and watched the world pass from outside his window. There was no way she could have known all this…right? Unless she’d somehow been there when he’d taken Baby for his first drive, had the accident, and gone back through freakin’ time.

He cleared his throat. “How’d you find me today?”

She smirked. “This ain’t my first rodeo, honey. I do possess some skills in tracking and hunting.” Dean grimaced

“Your name, then? And before you say it, I’m not calling you ‘Baby’,” he added.  
She was quiet for a long time, with some hidden emotion creasing her brow.

“Jackie,” she said finally. “My name was Jackie Wilson.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside an IHOP, much to Dean’s reluctance.

Jackie quite enjoyed seeing him through human eyes. He was something of a looker, and she drank him in as they went in, got seated, and ordered.

There was a well-worn beauty to him, the proud set of his jaw warring with the doubt in his tired eyes. And what incredible eyes, as green as leaves. She’d missed color. Everything had been black and white when she’d had wheels.

Dean’s gaze kept flickering to her and away as they waited for their food. Whenever their eyes met, he’d scowl and look down. And every time he looked down, Jackie wanted to catch his chin and make him meet her eyes again. She wanted—no, she needed him to trust her. The way she trusted him: unequivocally, unconditionally, wholeheartedly. But then, that trust came from years of being with him, learning how good of a man he was, how kind and loyal and brave and selfless. Dean didn’t know her from Eve. Actually, he knew Eve. He didn’t know her. Not as a person. Not in the way that mattered.

The food finally arrived, and Jackie crossed herself before digging in.

It was magnificent. The soft, fluffy pancakes drizzled in thick syrup, the sweet complimented by the slight saltiness of the butter, all of it melting in her mouth. She had to hold back tears. Across the table, Dean watched her as he ate his waffles.

“I don’t mean to rush you,” he said sarcastically around a mouthful of food, “but I kind of have to deal with a family emergency.”

Jackie froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. Sam. How in the world had she forgotten him? Admittedly, growing legs was quite the distraction, but Sammy was dying. That kind of thing shouldn’t have slipped her mind.

“Sam,” she nodded, and Dean raised a brow. “So, what’s the game plan?”

He stabbed a piece of waffle with his fork and sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. At this point, I might have to contemplate a full on resurrection.” It was meant as a joke, but the desolation in Dean’s voice was tangible. Her heart ached. How many times could fate pull the brothers apart like this? The universe was a cruel mistress.

She reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his, but he jerked it away, probably just out of reflex, but sharply enough that Jackie withdrew her own hand.

“Actually,” she mused, “I think I have an idea.”

* * *

“Your idea sucks.”

Jackie frowned at him but Dean frowned right back. “I mean, you’ve got to know that this is a terrible plan, right? I can already think of twelve things that could go wrong.”

“Well, aren’t you a glass half full?” she muttered. Then, louder, “Look, we’re not running into this blind. I know this guy, okay? He helped my dad once when he’d been shot in the liver. He’s the real deal.”

“But a _shaman_?” Dean said unenthusiastically as he drove. They were back on the road now, and this time he was behind the wheel. “The ones Sammy and I’ve run into were so full of crap, they put toilets to shame. _And_ it’s an eleven hour drive from Lebanon to Houston, one way. Sam might not have that much time.”  

“Sam’s tough,” Jackie countered. “And unless you can pull a better plan out of your ass, this is the best shot we’ve got.”

“Ugh, fine.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But if that shaman needs a sacrifice, I’m volunteering you, sweetheart.”

“Save the flirting for your pillow, honey.”

__________

Night fell as they drove down what seemed to be an endless highway. Neither of them had spoken much the entire trip, and eventually Jackie had fallen asleep.

Funny how comfortable she seemed to be around him.

Dean always figured he was intimidating – this big, six foot guy with trigger-happy hands and scars. But the girl—Jackie, she acted as if he were her little brother or something. Affectionate, kind of sassy, amused. He looked over at her now, puzzled.

Her head rested against the window and she was snoring softly, her face clear of all worry. But her hands twitched in her sleep, and he wondered for the first time what was going on inside her head. She was this cheerful enigma that he didn’t have time to unravel. Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, swallowing bitterness. Part of him believed her. All the signs pointed to the truth in her words – the toy soldier, the things she’d said that no one could have known. And maybe that’s why he was so adamant in defying this new twist of fate.

He missed his Baby.

The Impala was more than just a car. She was childhood memories, lonely and nomadic as they were. She was the last reminder of his father, of simpler times, happier times. She was his home, even more than the bunker would ever be. It was when he was fixing her up that he felt most sure of himself. And to think now that she was gone forever…

This girl was not his Baby. And it was too weird to replace all his memories of the Impala with her face. Way too weird to imagine all the things she’s witnessed.

Dean stifled a groan and forced himself to concentrate on the road and nothing else.

* * *

“Hey. Wake up.”

Jackie’s eyes opened and automatically locked on Dean. He looked exhausted, which was a reasonable assumption considering he’d been driving for almost eleven hours straight. They’d only stopped once to have lunch.

“Where are we?” she yawned.

He shut the car off. “The Palace Inn.” Jackie glanced out and saw that they were indeed parked in front of a motel. “I just need a few hours of unconsciousness, and then we can pay your friend a visit.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Together, they got out of the car and made their way into the motel.

A sleepy-looking woman was sitting behind the desk, reading a magazine, and she glanced up as they approached. “Can I help you?” she drawled.

“We’d like two rooms for the night,” Dean said as he handed over his credit card. She took it, shaking her head.

“We’ve only got one room to spare at the moment.”

 _Amazing_ , Jackie thought. He let out an exasperated noise, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Seriously?” She coughed to disguise her laughter.  

The woman peered at him over her glasses. “It’s almost 1:00 AM, sir. The one room is all we have available. You can either take it or leave it.”

“We’ll take it,” Jackie interjected before Dean could say something regrettable. The woman nodded and returned his credit card along with a room key.

“Room 147.” She went back to her magazine. “Enjoy your stay.”

“You…enjoy your stay,” he muttered as they walked away.

_________

The room was at the end of the hall. Dean unlocked the door, and their eyes immediately fell on the single, king-sized bed resting in the corner. Obviously.

“I guess I’ll take the floor,” he sighed and went in, plopping down at the table.

Jackie shut the door, feeling guilty. “No, you take the bed. I already got some shut-eye in the car.” Dean looked at her doubtfully. It occurred to her then that he was uncomfortable. With her. With the whole situation. Last thing he probably wanted was her in the room while he slept.

“Tell you what,” she smiled. “I’m kinda hungry, so I’ll make a run. You just get settled, alright?”

After a moment, he shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” He tossed her the keys, and she bit back a grin. It wasn’t exactly trust, but it was a step in the right direction.

“Sleep well, Dean,” Jackie whispered as she left the room.

* * *

As soon as she was gone, Dean got out his cellphone and dialed Cas.

The angel answered after two rings. “Hello, Dean.”

“Cas. Hey. Sorry for vanishing on you guys. It’s kind of, uh…”

“A long story? I thought as much, yes. Are you alright?”

Dean almost smiled. “I’m fine, man. But how’s Sam doing?”

“He’s hanging on.” A tinge of worry touched Cas’ voice. “Whatever you’re planning, Dean, I suggest you do it quickly. Your brother is strong, stronger than most, but he’s still only human.” _Only human_. Did Cas feel that way about himself now? Dean shoved the thought away. Cas’ issues, as much as they sucked, didn’t need immediate attention. Sam’s did.

“I hear you, man,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Listen, just keep doing what you’re doing. We should be back soon.”

“‘We’?”

Dean’s mouth lifted wryly. “Yeah. See you in a bit.” And he hung up, not even bothering to remove his shoes before collapsing onto the bed.

* * *

Jackie stood in the line at Taco Bell, feeling overwhelmed.

How many meals would she eat before the wonder finally faded? She almost laughed as she read through the menu. So many options. The overabundance of food in this new century was astounding.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember what Dean usually ordered from here.

Some memories were clear as glass, like the license plates, the thrum of Dean’s music through her speakers, even snatches of conversation.

Other things, most things, Jackie could only vaguely recall through muted flashes.  
When she focused, like she was right now, the blurry memories sharpened slightly, but the effort made her head throb. She pinched the bridge of her nose, concentrating. The image laboriously rose from the ashes of her mind – boots approaching. Dean’s boots. Jackie forced the lens of her memory to pan higher – now she could see his hand grasping the paper bag with the Taco Bell insignia on it –

 _Run_.

Her eyes snapped open, but she wasn’t seeing the queue in front of her anymore.

_A decrepit, abandoned house. Blood smeared on the walls in strange shapes – sigils. The scent of mildew and incense. And sulfur.  
_

_“Run, Jackie!”  
_

_A crumpled piece of paper in her fist. Familiar brown eyes, wide with rage and fear.  
_

_“Go!”  
_

_More blood, splattering on the ground._  
  
“Are you okay, lady?”

The world rushed back to her, and Jackie blinked dizzily. A teenaged boy with a lip ring and eyeliner was peering at her.

“What?”

He shot her an annoyed look. “You just, like, zoned out of this planet.” When she continued staring at him blankly, he gestured to the counter where an employee stood at bored attention. “It’s your turn to order.”

Jackie swallowed back bile. “Actually, I’m not hungry anymore.”

* * *

_“Sammy, stop!”  
_

_There his brother stood, covered in sweat and desperation, blood dripping from the fresh cut on his hand. How had he gotten so deathly, so quickly?  
_

_“What? What’s going on? Where’s Cas?” Dean observed the manic in his brother’s voice. Sam was too close to the edge. He was peering down the abyss. Dean began speaking slowly, calmly, trying to talk his brother back, back to him. But it wasn’t working – Sam was too far gone.  
_

_“You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down.” His voice broke at the end, along with Dean’s heart. When—_ how _had he let Sam get to this point? The point where he didn’t care if he lived or died? “What happens when you’ve decided I can’t be trusted again? I mean, who are you gonna turn to next time instead of me? Another angel? Another…another vampire?  Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your brother just—”  
_

_Dean spoke then and through his words, he reeled his little brother back in, away from the pain and the evil and the loneliness. Just as he’d done all his life. And for a minute, things were okay.  
_

_“How do I stop?”  
_

_“Just let it go. Let it go, brother.”  
_

_And then they weren’t._  
  
Dean jerked awake with a racing heart and came face-to-face with a to-go bag from Taco Bell. Hmm. Good choice.

Across the room, Jackie sat at the table with her knees tucked under her chin, staring out the window. She looked dazed.

“Did you eat?” he asked groggily as he sat up. She just smiled. _Weird_. And speaking of weird… “So, are we ever gonna talk about your whole ‘I-used-to-have-tires’ story, or what?”

She sighed. “We did talk about it, Dean.”

“No, you spouted a few fun facts about my ride, and now that I’m thinking about it, there are ways to get that kind of information without actually having been my car.” He opened the Taco Bell bag and plucked a burrito from inside. “Witchcraft, for instance. Demon interrogation. _Christo_ ,” he suddenly said. She raised a brow. “Nothing. Never mind. Point is, I’m gonna need more than what you gave me. So start talking, or I’m taking off without you.”

Jackie rolled her eyes but unfolded herself from her chair and came to stand beside him.  

“Give me your hand,” she ordered. He narrowed his eyes warily, but she grabbed his hand and placed it over her sternum. “Feel that?” she said, breathing in and out deeply. Beneath his fingers, a slight vibration began, almost like a rattle.

“Um…you’re asthmatic? Mazel tov.”

“No, you walnut. Those are the Legos.” Dean’s brows shot up, and Jackie continued. “I think they shrank when I turned human, but they’re still there, making me sound like your grandma.” He pulled his hand away while she added, “I’ll even get an x-ray if you want me to prove that they’re Legos and not just tuberculosis.”

“Okay, but—”

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. Keeping her eyes on him and one hand up in surrender, Jackie slowly reached down and tugged the edge of her shirt up to expose a strip of skin above her beltline. His gaze followed the smooth contour of her stomach to where she was pointing.

There, right above the hard line where her hip jutted from her waist, was a scar. Two scars, actually, and for a minute Dean didn’t understand what he was looking at. Then it dawned on him.

S.W. and D.W., carved into her flesh in reverse, as if he were looking at the letters in a mirror. But in reality, it was because the initials has been carved from the inside, the same reason why instead of the scars being a thick pink or white line, they simple appeared as raised skin.

Someone had etched those initials inside of her. Which would have been physically impossible unless…

“I’m not lying, Dean,” she said quietly, and for the first time, he found himself nodding.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.” Jackie dropped her shirt back into place with a look of profound relief and sat down at the foot of the bed.

“Bizarre, huh?” she chuckled, but there was no humor in her tone. “I’m not really sure how to feel about…all of it.”

“Do you want to talk about?” he asked awkwardly. “I hear that helps sometimes.” This wasn’t exactly a situation he’d dealt with before. Giant, talking teddy bears, sure. Being abducted by fairies posing as aliens, obviously. But this was…a new one. Unsure of how better to be supportive, he unwrapped his burrito and shoved it into his mouth.

Jackie rubbed her eyes tiredly. “Honestly, there’s not much to talk about. And I think my memory’s got gaps in it, to make this even more fun.” She glanced at him, then away. “I remember a flash of blue and then waking up on the side of a road with your stuff all around me. I was also wearing what I’d worn before getting turned into a car, which was tattered – so I went off to get new clothes—”

“Wait, hold up,” Dean cut in. “‘Before getting turned into a car’? Are you saying that you were a person with a life before? And someone did this to you?”

“No, Dean, I turn into a car every full moon.” She shook her head exasperatedly. “Yes, someone did this to me. A witch, to be exact.”

“A witch…” His eyes widened. “I killed a witch the night Baby—I mean, the night when you became human again. Think it’s the same one?”

“Sounds like it. Did he have a uni brow? I’m pretty sure I remember a uni brow.”

“Oh,” Dean frowned. “The one I wasted was a woman. Not the same, I guess.”

Jackie shrugged nonchalantly, but something about the set of her shoulders and the way her hands were balled tightly in her lap made him think that she’d been stewing over this for a while.

“We have more pressing matters anyway. Sam comes first,” she said, and he nodded. “So, why don’t you get a few more hours of sleep, and then we can hit the road.”

Dean stared at the half-eaten burrito in his hands.

 _Let it go, brother_. The words surfaced in his mind again, accompanied by Sam’s unconscious face. His brother was letting go as they spoke, and soon there would be nothing to let go of.

“You know, I think I’m good,” he said.

Jackie looked concerned. “Really? But you paid for this room.”

“Yeah.” He tore off another bite of burrito and through a full mouth, added, “Three words: credit card fraud.”

She snorted, then stood up and stretched. “Alrighty. Let’s go.”


End file.
